


It's Après Ski, Scully

by TabithaJean



Category: The X-Files
Genre: 2018, Fluff and Angst, Miscarriage, New Year's Eve, Post-Episode: s11e10 My Struggle IV, Skiing, TW:, Trying to fix some things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24804667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TabithaJean/pseuds/TabithaJean
Summary: Mulder takes Scully skiing for New Year's in 2018 to help them both move on from the events of the year. Some angst, some fluff, some closure.
Relationships: Fox Mulder & Dana Scully
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	It's Après Ski, Scully

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I wanted three things for Scully (and Mulder):
> 
> 1) For her to go skiing for the first time  
> 2) For her to remember how magic a night out can be  
> 3) For her to find some realistic, meaningful conclusion to the revelation at the end of MS IV
> 
> I have a head cannon that the last night out Scully went on was when she was undergoing cancer treatment and needed some distraction with her girlfriends. After that she didn't really get a break from life. I wanted her to reclaim herself a little bit, both physically and mentally. 
> 
> I wanted her to have some fun. And deal with some things. 
> 
> Thank you so much to Frangipanidownunder for the beta. It's wayyy better for it! 
> 
> Any comments/feedback is really appreciated :)

Snow crunches under skis. This is her first surprise. Snow under snow boots creeks like a branch of wood about to snap, but she’d thought skis would be silent. Instead, the branch of wood is replaced by the loud crack of a falling tree as the snow compacts under the weight of her. Her teeth hurt, like nails grating down a chalkboard.

The nursery slope is her second surprise. A generous name for the tiny runway next to the lift station. She stands on the carpet lift almost a head taller than the children around her, marvelling at the speed they pick up on a slope which barely measures a 5-degree incline. It doesn’t bother her that she is the only adult on the run. If she’s going to learn how to ski, it’s going to be done properly, and that means private lessons, being sensible, and definitely no running before she can walk. Or no chair lifts before she can ski.

‘French fries, pizza, French fries, pizza,’ Scully mutters as she staccatos down the slope, her skis alternating from parallel position to a panicked snow plough. Hands on knees, thighs tensed, she feels like she’s about to sprint except her skis ground her to the snow like a train on a track.

Muted, mittened applause meets her at the bottom, and she looks up, relaxing her frown, to see Mulder standing next to her instructor, tall in navy blue salopettes and wearing the grey shark ski hat she’d bought him for Christmas the week before. He insists on wearing it, and though she pretends to be embarrassed, she is tickled pink. 

‘Look at you!’ He cheers, and she blushes with pride and kisses from the mountain sun. ‘Already hopping your way down like a real ski bunny!’

‘Shut up, Mulder,’ she murmurs, secretly delighted with his praise. She glances at him from under coy, heavy eyelids. He is excited for her, smiling wide with raised eyebrows. Cold mountain air is a refreshing balm for her lungs.

*

In order to simply stand up and stay balanced, nerves are activated by the vestibular system in the ear, alerting the muscles to keep the body upright. Baroreceptors in the heart strengthen the heartbeat by quickening the pulse, and the contraction of the leg muscles as the body stands pushes blood back up to the heart to prevent fainting. Across all this, the spinal cord lights up the body through its circuit board. If merely standing independently is the sonata of the symphony, then skiing can only be likened to the minuet.

‘Room for one more?’ Scully cracks an eyelid at the interruption of her bath time musings to see Mulder standing naked, holding a tray with two champagne flutes. She runs her eyes slowly over him, her delicious treat. She particularly loves his thighs: the way they ripple as he adjusts his weight, the way his quadriceps pop just above the knee like two secrets just for her. She makes him wait just to see the ripple.

‘Always,’ she says finally, licking her lips and sitting up for him to slide behind her. ‘I can’t believe you remembered, Mulder. It’s a bit extravagant, though, don’t you think?’

‘If not now, when? If not us, who?’ 

‘And that’s a rather glib application of the phrase.’

‘Not at all, Scully. We deserve the nice things. Do I really have to remind you of our low-key Christmas? What did you get me, a bicycle pump?’

‘And a ski hat! Anyway, I’ll have you know that the man in the store said that’s the best pump for your road bike. He said it’s the one the Olympians use.’

‘Oh yeah? Which Olympian?’

‘The fast one.’ She rests her head against his chest and any desire is quickly supplanted by exhaustion. She is worn out, like an old pair of running shoes. Her thighs relax in the water, spreading like eggs in hot water, melting the DOMs away. She finishes her champagne and settles back against him, his warmth soothing her neck. Despite Mulder’s strict squat schedule over the preceding months, the first day of skiing has well and truly kicked her ass.

On a still, standard Tuesday evening in June, whilst washing up the dinner dishes, Mulder learned that she’d never been skiing. They were playing Desert Island Dinners: picking their last meal before being cast away forever.

‘I’ll start with cold champagne in a hot bath while you’re downstairs, preparing the food.’

‘Scully, if I’m preparing the food, you’d better adjust your expectations. Unless your desert island dinner has something to do with Mac’n’Cheese.’

‘If we’re comfortable imagining that we’re actually going to a desert island afterwards, we are also comfortable imagining that you have Michelin-grade culinary skills.’

‘Ok, well in that case I’m starting my dinner with après ski.’

‘Now what is après ski exactly? Is it the drink? Or the experience? Or is your food in there too somewhere?’

‘Scully, please tell me you’ve been skiing before.’ He paused while drying a plate to stare at her in disbelief. ‘You’ve _never_ been skiing?’

‘We’re coastal people, Mulder,’ she replied hotly, flicking soap suds in his direction. ‘We didn’t need to go skiing. Our San Diego winters weren’t bad enough to warrant distraction.’

‘But _Scully_ _._ Après ski is more than a drink, more than an experience. It’s what you could classify as a lifestyle.’ He gathered a stack of plates to put away in the cabinet. ‘I’m going to take you. I’m going to book us a trip. We’ll go this Christmas. No, New Year. We’ll go skiing together. I think it will be a great way to see in the New Year.’

Scully had deliberately avoided thinking about anything beyond October. She stared through the kitchen window to the field outside, her hands wrinkled and pale in the soapy water. The grass was long, and the sun was singing its final encore before setting, coating everything in a warm, orange glow. A flock of birds pierced the sky, their sudden change of direction shaking her out of her reverie.

‘If you say so,’ she replied. ‘But if après ski is a lifestyle, then it doesn’t count for Desert Island Dinners.’

Someone whispers her name and she rolls her head up from where it had slipped towards her shoulder. The bath water is cool, the bubbles all but disappeared.

‘Scully, our room service is here. I’ll let them in while you get ready.’

‘I fell asleep?’

‘Almost immediately. It was impressive.’

Lightning pain strikes her thighs as she attempts to stand. He reaches for her hands as she steps out ‘Mulderrrr. I’m so sore. This old dog doesn’t like learning new tricks.'

She feels like Sophia Loren in ‘Arabesque’, wrapped in a robe and towel, when she finally emerges from the bathroom. Their room has an open fireplace and a pillow menu. Not entirely comfortable with the luxury, she’d teased Mulder about returning to his natural New England habitat, though now she can’t wait to lay her head on her carefully selected pillow. Light-headed and sleepy, she glides to the table and laughs when she sees Mulder’s room service order: pizza and a mountain of French fries.

*

A miscarriage is not the same as a period, she has learned. A miscarriage is laden with unmet expectations, a violent wound on fresh hope. It drags life and love down into the toilet basin to be carried away with the waste. She’d met a cruel, dual reality of pregnancy: struggling with tender breasts and morning sickness from the still-raging hormones, whilst at the same time confronting the practicalities of its demise, complete with sore back and cramps. She knew the odds of a live birth at her age, and the odds of an uncomplicated live birth. However, she was still unprepared, winded at the shock, devastated at her powerlessness, stupid for having believed that this time there might have been a different outcome. 

He found her one night on the bathroom floor, hands over her face, crying.

‘I can’t do anything, Mulder _,_ ’ she sobbed, indulging herself for once in histrionics, all hiccups and sharp gulps like a child. She fussed with a dry washcloth, threading it over and under her fingers. Tears traced their way down to her jawline, but she didn’t want to interrupt the pattern of the washcloth, so they landed heavy and wet on her chest. Mulder was silent in the doorway. She thought she would scream if she looked at him, so she focussed on the washcloth. ‘I can’t grow a baby, but I can grow cancer like a champion. Then I _can_ grow a baby, but not without Alien DNA. I still don’t even know what that means. Why?’ She wiped her eyes and faced him with cold, despairing eyes. ‘And _then_ I can grow another baby. And now I can’t.’

Grief is usually a solitary act for both Mulder and Scully. He runs, exorcising his pain on the tarmac as he clocks up his mileage; she hides in the study under the guise of working, whilst scouring the internet for message boards on failed pregnancy. That night, he sat next to her, without touching, keeping vigil while she grieved.

*

New Year’s Eve is the night for the true après ski experience, Mulder promises. It starts with hot chocolate on the slopes after their day of skiing, followed by mulled wine in front of the fireplace at the hotel bar. They dine at a restaurant with the perfect vantage point for the 8pm fireworks, and because of a two-session service that night, find themselves wandering up Main Street by 8:45pm. Tired children sit on the shoulders of patient parents; young revellers exude excitement as their night stretches before them like a tasting menu. Faces shine silver from the Christmas lights on every streetlamp; the sweet smell of roast chestnut wafts through the crowd. Scully is soft with food and wine, her cheeks rosy from the sun, and she smiles at children wearing novelty, flashing 2019 glasses. The joy of the night is contagious.

An Irish pub blasts _All I Want for Christmas_ by Mariah Carey, and Scully taps her finger against Mulder’s hand to the rhythm. Not one to buy into the commercialism of major holidays, she is a sucker for Christmas songs, their tunes as familiar and comforting as nursery rhymes. This year, after she’d heard Wham playing in Target, she sent Mulder into the attic for the decorations on the Tuesday following Thanksgiving.

‘Let’s go in, Scully,’ he says suddenly. ‘It’s too early to go back. And you need to end up in some dive bar to get the proper après ski experience.’

There are shots, at Mulder’s insistence. Three of them in total, three tequila shots in a busy pub in Vermont with low lighting and wooden beams on New Year’s Eve. Her nose and lips are numb. They find a spot at the bar and for the first time in twenty years, Scully is excited at the prospect of a Night Out. It is both young and unwritten: all they have to do is keep saying yes. This is an unexpected New Year’s Eve surprise, and she surrenders to it willingly.

Blondie’s _Call Me_ lures her to the dance floor. She walks on marshmallow legs, dragging Mulder onto the dance floor. Sweat hangs like a mist over the crowd. She bumps into other dancers, solid as tree trunks, using them as leverage to forge deeper into the crowd. They carve out their own little circle, their own tiny forest glade. All she sees are the shadows of his eyes under the frenetic dance floor lights. All she feels are his hands on her waist, his hot breath against her forehead, and the beat of the music rumbling under her feet. She is 14 at the school dance, awkward in her first strapless dress, shoulders hunched over the hint of cleavage. She is 19 and drinking whiskey neat from a bottle by the weir, dancing in front of a bonfire with her friends. She shakes her head in time with the music and when her hair hits her cheeks, she imagines it’s made of colourful streamers like the ones hanging from her bicycle handlebars as a kid. She is as delicate as tulle, floating under the rainbow lights.

‘This is _your song_ , Muller!’ She squeals as the opening piano chords from _Don’t Stop Believin’_ chime. She holds her palms up and gawps at him, incredulous. ‘Your song! Don’t stop believing? Come on, this was _written for you_!’

He smiles indulgently, takes her hand and twirls her, then holds her close in a loose, lazy waltz. Madonna sings about being in trouble deep, and Scully remembers the impact of this song during her final year of college: realising for the first time that she could stand up to her father.

Her layers have been peeled on the dancefloor and now she’s suddenly 22 again, singing and dancing with abandon. Alcohol runs like lasers through her veins. Her hair sticks to her forehead, her armpits damp under her turtleneck. Her heart beats with the song. She feels _alive_. Giggling at the lyric _I’m keeping my baby_ , she pulls Mulder’s head urgently close so that her lips brush his ear when she speaks.

‘This is _my_ song, Muller,’ she declares loudly with inebriated significance. He tries to pull away, but she holds him tight. She has more. ‘No, listen. This song taught me to say no to all the old men. Because they’re always old men, aren’t they? You know, I had always thought if I was in that position, I’d say to them _no._ _Fuck_ off. I’m keeping my baby. I’m gonna keep my baby.’

She giggles again, releasing him to twirl once more, carefree under the snowflakes of the glitter ball. What happened with William has become a landmark in a life, an important fork in the road, but one from which she no longer hides. Her therapist helped her reframe the events after meeting Jackson at the start of the year: she made a decision, there were consequences, and she has finally accepted enough responsibility to work towards peace, knowing that from time to time the pain will still crash upon her in unexpected waves. She can sense him; she knows he’s safe somewhere. It’s like talking to someone through a thick pane of glass. You can read their emotions a little, but the details are lost. One day, when he’s reached a similar state of acceptance, he will present himself like a long-awaited gift, and until then, waiting is all they can do.

Mulder, though. Mulder isn’t privy to any of this. Her self-awareness is currently non-existent, and when she stumbles mid-twirl, she is surprised by the force with which he steadies her after her little speech. He leads her off the dance floor to the coat room.

‘Where are we going?’ she asks as they tumble out of the bar, coats and gloves and hats snowballing between them.

‘I just needed to get out of there,’ he says quietly. ‘Crowds, you know.’

‘Yeah. I do know.’ Their padded hands automatically reach for each other as they walk carefully down the street. By unspoken agreement, they decide to walk back to the hotel. It’s 11:00, Scully realises with a shock, they’ve only been in that bar for two hours; it feels like it should be 5am already. Her cheeks sting in the cold, and the darkness of the night clears some of the fuzz in her mind. 

Suddenly they turn a corner and see an ice angel towering inexplicably in a quiet square, glowing with warm yellow lights. She plays a trumpet to the heavens, and her serious face looks up to the stars. There is no one else around.

‘Oh my god,’ Scully exclaims, her breath floating up to join the song of the trumpet.

‘She’s beautiful,’ Mulder says. Scully is studying the detail of the pleated skirt when Mulder speaks again. ‘I know this isn’t the New Year that either of us had wanted. But I hope it’s enough. I hope you’re ok.’

Is she ok? She thinks about it every day, how old it would be, pictures the specific ways in which her days would differ. Sleepless nights. Tummy time. Maternity leave. They both had imagined a Christmas full of noise, of plastic toys which they would pretend to hate but would secretly look forward to playing with, of stepping over mountains of discarded wrapping paper to heat up a bottle. That they are here in Vermont feels like a dream, like she might wake up and find herself in the other Christmas.

‘Mulder… I’m ok. You’re right, it’s not what we’d hoped for. Not by a long shot. But at the very least I’m ok….’ Ok is accurate. Not amazing, not awful, but getting by. She puts her hand on her stomach, thinking of the dark space in her lower abdomen. She pictures it to be like the stable before Holy Mary arrived. The tightness of grief starts to swirl in her chest, and she inhales deeply to squash it. He lifts her hand from her stomach and holds it, and she wants to cry that he knows this about her. ‘How about you, how are you?’

‘I just wanted a chance to do it all,’ his voice is low, so she steps closer to hear. ‘I didn’t do it last time. I wanted to be there, to _be_ the dad.’

The space in her chest pangs, her ribs a tuning fork vibrating into her emptiness. She aches for him to have seen the scans, to have felt the kicks, to see the weird moments when an elbow pokes out and drags itself across the lining of her tummy. For him to bring their child to her in the middle of the night, all three of them sleepy, heavy, hungry. For their little family to step into the unchartered waters of toddlerhood together.

‘Me too. I wanted it so much.’ Her words are loose, pliable like warm candlewax, and tears sit uninvited in her eyes. He hugs her, and the nylon of his jacket scratches her face. She loves the way her head fits by his shoulder joint. She loves him so deeply, so earnestly, it pours out like an overflowing bucket. Her mind swims with words that she needs to articulate in this very moment right now. ‘But you know Mulder…. To have shared a life… to have lived all the details together. That counts for a lot. It’s not the holiday season we had planned back in Spring. But you and I…. We’re healthy. Neither of us died, we’re not sick. You’re here, and you’ve always been here, even when you haven’t, and I’m here. I can’t believe it. I’m so grateful. I’m _so_ grateful.’ She turns to face him and her head spins with the sudden movement. She steadies herself with both palms on his chest. ‘I’m… so drunk.’

His belly-laugh echoes around the square and Scully worries it will topple the sculpture. He has sad eyes, but she sees a flash of levity and wants to dive into their depths to grasp it.

‘You are, as always, right, Agent Scully. Even when three sheets to the wind.’

She stands on her tiptoes and kisses him, long and forceful. Forty minutes later, they aren’t awake to welcome 2019.

*

‘Goddamn après ski,’ Scully mutters to herself from the top of the green slope. ‘Goddamn 2019.’

The ski slope is majestic: tree-lined and glistening in the sun. The mountain sun sits close to the summit, so unlike the stark, relentless hunter which stalked them in Antarctica. Unfortunately, Scully can’t appreciate this as each blink drags razors across her eyes, and the dull ache behind her eyes has transformed into a marching band. Thank god Mulder had the foresight to leave this day free of ski lessons.

She remembers little of the evening after their second shot, which, after the wine with dinner, had toppled her over the edge, and even less after their third. She remembers music pulsating through her core, remembers feeling pretty as she moved with it. Kissing Mulder by an ice sculpture. She remembers love.

‘Ok, Dancing Queen, let’s go!’ Mulder grins as he starts his descent.

She sighs and pushes off the top of the slope. This is her first green run. Her first proper run with a chair lift and everything. There’s a sense of inevitability: she has to reach the bottom. Skiing is the only way down, but she can’t quite believe that she can do it. She talks to herself as her legs move from parallel into the snow plough as she takes her first turn. ‘Ok, now go back to French fries… that’s it, take another slice of pizza for this turn…’

The piste is gradual but long. Scully follows Mulder, traverses widely with long, swooping turns. As she moves into the third turn, she feels the smooth freefall of her skis crossing and she tumbles, sliding two metres down the slope, leaving one lonely ski above her. Snow fills her gloves and her neckline. Her palms are wet and cold, and her hip hurts from the impact. Her head is pounding. She bites her lip until it hurts too.

‘Scully!’ Mulder sidesteps up the hill to meet her. ‘Are you ok? Are you hurt?’

‘Only my pride,’ she mumbles, looking back up the slope. Mulder continues past her to collect her ski. She leans on his shoulder while he knocks the snow off her boot and clicks it into the binding.

‘Are you sure you’re ok?’

‘I’m fine.’ Goddamn hangover. Snap out of it. ‘I just needed a head start!’

She pushes away from him, exhilarated that she is now leading the way. She picks up speed, daring herself not to use the snow plough until the next turn.

‘Pizza, pizza, pizza… and fries!’ She chants as she successfully straightens her skis. Mulder hasn’t overtaken her, and though she can’t afford to look up for long, she glances to see she’s two thirds of the way down.

Stray hair whips around her chin with the wind as she accelerates. Every bump, every gradient shift, ricochets through her. She expects to take off and soar over the treetops: she is both grounded and in flight. Peripheral noise falls away. The noise from her skis is meditative, this crunching sound she found so off-putting only two days earlier, and her breath aligns with the rhythm. She makes another turn before she realises that she’s done it. _This_ is what Mulder enjoys: the poetry of the act. The tension between feeling weightless and its physical demands. Between being scared that you can’t and then doing it anyway. The space in between control and free fall is where Mulder thrives.

Scully comes to a controlled stop at the bottom of the piste, as if by merely wishing it so. Catching her breath, she leans into her boots to give her legs a reprieve. Mulder skis beside her, showering her with snow as he stops. Taking off her hat, she runs her fingers through her hair, and throws her fists in the air.

‘Holy shit!’ she shouts, laughing loudly with carefree disbelief. ‘Did you see that? Did you see what I did? That was amazing! I can’t believe I did that!’

She looks back to admire what just happened. The piste looms behind her, steep and long. But conquered.


End file.
